A Tear Unbidden
by elelel
Summary: [OneShot] When you loose a loved one do you try so hard to heal yourself, grasping at hope and happiness, or slowly drown yourself in the waters of deepest sorrow? A tale of loss and obsession: the most lethal of drugs. Harry and ?


A/N: I took a bit of a break from "The Misery Index" to write this little inspiration. Harry? mourn the loss of their child.

This is my first fic writing in second person. I hope you don't get confused!

Also, I rated this T for slight language and major angsty-ness.

Disclaimer: "Harry Potter" is to "owned by me", as…..well I don't own it.

**A Tear Unbidden**

You're suffering and you know it.

It holds you down - suffocates you. Wraps you so tightly in its anguished embrace that you almost think it's love. That it would almost be worth dying just to feel such a thing again. Pure happiness and joy. You used to know that feeling once. You don't remember, but you did.

There's always a weight on your chest - relentless and miserable. It's like your inner despair has become a living, breathing thing that rests inside you; constricting and squeezing 'till there's nothing left of you.

'Till you're nothing.

But maybe you already are.

It kills you inside _everyday._ You're dying and no one even realizes. Not really, anyway. They tell you their sorry for your loss ("So _very _sorry...") then wait for you to "get over it." They don't really care. They don't care that you're six feet under already in the deep depths of your mind. They can't feel the sadness radiating off of you like a contagious disease. They can't see that you're a walking corpse, just getting through each and day and waiting patiently for it all to be over. All they know is "I'm sorry."

You're sick of it.

All anyone has ever told you in your whole pathetic existence is "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry your feeling as if the world is crashing in around you."

"I'm sorry everyone you love seems to leave you."

"I'm sorry you feel alone."

"I'm sorry this hurts, but you'll get over it soon enough. You have to."

"I'm sorry I can't help you."

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry._

It. Means. Nothing.

They're just a hollow excuse for sympathy and caring and remorse. People really say it so they can redeem themselves in you sight - to make _themselves _feel better. Not you.

But what else can you do but grit your teeth and smile and pretend their words are comforting? You cannot tell them what you really feel. What is really troubling you. They would never want to know...and you would not want to give them that burden.

They don't care that it's kill you. That the gravestone haunts your dreams - burns itself to the insides of your eyelids so there is no escape. They do not remember that one year ago today was the day. The day your precious girl - your everything - died.

Three hundred sixty-five days since your life changed forever.

Twelve months ago when you became a shell. A ghost of your past living counterpart. And no one _fucking _noticed.

'But she did,' you remind yourself. Her warm eyes filled with tears when they met yours. She lost someone that day too. You were selfish to think you were the only one.

She cried so much that day. You held her and whispered in her ear that everything was going to be alright. It was going to be okay. But of course it was a lie, and she knew it, but neither of you cared. Lies and truth, what did they matter anymore? It was like someone ripped your souls out, slowly and painfully.

And there is nothing more left of you. Not anymore.

One year later and yet it feels like twenty. You wonder how much longer you can gon like this - how much longer _she _can hold on. You both have strength beyond barriers, but surely it cannot be much longer. Soon the agony will be over and sweet death will envelop you in its almost loving embrace and whisper to you,

_'Everything will be alright...'_

And you will believe it.

But until then there is life to live, things to be done, pain to be endured. Or so you say. But you know the real reason you keep living. The reason you wake and breathe and face day after day.

She knows it too. It's a dirty and unkempt secret you both share. Dusty and faded around the edges, but it's there. The reason you smile and laugh and pretend everything's right in your world when it's not. You bottle it all up inside - the frustration and grief and anger - and you wait.

She waits patiently for you, just like everyday. She stares nostalgically at the clock just above the mantel as it slowly ticks closer to six o'clock. You always come home then - never a minute late. Sometimes it astounds you how much you both run like clockwork. But why shouldn't you? It's not like you have anything to live for anymore. Except each other. You're all the other has got.

The minute hand locks itself to the twelve as the door, creaking on its hinges, opens. She does not looks up as you enter or welcome you home. In fact, the only thing she does to acknowledge that you're even there is as just brushes close by you as she passes to the kitchen.

She used to kiss you when you walked in the door and smile.

You used to smile back.

Funny how things can change so quickly. Strange, how innocence fades so unnoticeable until finally you realize it's gone and it has been for a long time. Irretrievably and irrevocably gone.

'But can you lose innocence if you never truly had it at all?' you reflect wearily.

You don't want to think about that now. It's jst so much easier to push those thoughts and emotions to the back of your mind and be woefully ignorant of the past and days that stretch like a marathon before you.

You both eat in silence. The soft clanging of silverware and plate puncturing the dense quiet that surrounds you. It folds and curves and drowns you, but you don't care.

It's getting close.

She knows it as well. You can feel the tension in her shoulders as you both wash the dishes side by side. Her breathing is calm and rhythmic, but her hands tremble as she passes you another dish to dry.

Soon you're in the car again. A beat up '92 Ford Taurus with some of it's dark green paint peeling off, but it's doesn't matter. As long as it gets you to Evergreen, it's a good car.

Her forehead is pressed agains the window, and you could almost believe she is asleep. Except for the fact that every muscle is her back is strained and tense.

You drive steadily down a long road lined with pine trees swaying slowly, almost lazily, in the fall breeze. It's hard for you to appreciate the beauty this place holds while it itself houses a grave that leaves a hole in your being.

You pull slowly into a narrow roadway, past the open gates that read "Evergreen Cemetary."

The place of your dreams.

The place of your nightmares.

You stop the car not far from the gate. Helping her out of the behicle, you both start walking, hands still clasped together. The only affectionate gesture left in you.

She is all you have left.

To onlookers, you probably look like lost wanderers. A couple just out for a stroll that will lead them to no place in particular. But the awful truth is that you always know where you're going. It's a mantra that repeats itself over and over - scorching itself into your thoughts and haunting your waking mind.

'Block twenty-five. Row 7. Third stone over.'

You feel her squeeze your already numbing hand as you turn left at a sign that reads **Block Twenty-Five**.

'Row seven...'

One, two, three...

You're so close now. So close to your little girl. Her golden locks flash across your memory.

...four, five, six, seven...

'Third stone over...'

One. Two.

Three.

There she is. Your lovely, brilliant, beautiful little girl. Your daughter - lying six feet below you right at this moment.

It isn't right. She was supposed to take care of _you _when you became old and grey. You were supposed to watch her get married. You were supposed to die before her. That's the way it works.

"Oh..." whispers a voice beside you.

You flinch. For a moment you forgot she was even there.

You look over at her as her hand slides from yours and she drops to her knees. Her eyes are blank and devoid of all emotion but her voice said everything she could not. It released an aura of longing and aching and so much pain.

It's not fair.

She was only seven. _Seven._

_No one _is supposed to die at seven.

'She would've been eight a week ago,' you think. But you wouldn't dare say it aloud. You wouldn't in a million years remind your wife - the woman you love - who is now pouring over your daughter's gravestone, how young and innocent she was when you both lost her.

When you both lost yourselves.

It's always going to be hard for you to believe that your witty little seven-year-old will not enter through those fine doors of first grade, looking tall and proud over her fellow classmates, as she had been so excited about before her untimely demise.

She's sobbing now, hugging the gravestone like it's her sanity; like it's the only thing worth living for...which is, partially, the truth.

But even as she sobs like the end of the world is upon her, no tears spill from her eyes. You know she has long since cried herself dry for her daughter - your daughter.

After what feels like an eternity, she stands and brushes dirt off of her clothes. Pressing two fingers to her lips, she kisses them and places them firmly on the top of the stone and walks away.

You walk up to the grey slab of stone as she leaves. For a while you just stand there. You never know what to say. You want to say something deep and meaningful, to reassure you that someday you'll be done with this.That someday you won't need to visit her grave everyday. That someday just her memory will be enough to keep you living.

But the only word that escapes is,

"Goodbye."

It is the reason you wake. The reason you breathe and live, crack half-hearted jokes and pretend about everything. This is the reason you haven't fucking commited suicide yet.

Because you never said goodbye when it really counted. You never told her anything before she died.

So this is you making up for it. Getting off work, eating dinner with a ghost of the woman you love so deeply, and coming here to say goodbye everyday.

But it never makes you feel any better.

It never fills your aching heart.

A tear unbidden carves a smooth pathway down your face. Your wife may have cried herself dry over these moments, but you have not. You wish, you _pray, _there was some way to get rid of it all. To release this build up of emotion you've kept inside for so long.

So you lean down and whisper to a grave that holds your daughter and your heart and you whisper those two dreadful words. The two words that intend to bring comfort but only make you resentful. Those two awful words that mean nothing and everything to you at the same time. The words that have mocked you all your life.

And you walk away.

But your words are carried back to you on the wind. They tease you - twisting the blade - making you flinch and walk faster.

"I'm sorry."

THE END


End file.
